Happiness is a Gift
by ayouintervention
Summary: Post-Mockingjay. Katniss wonders if she will ever be able to stop thinking of Peeta as someone she damaged. A snowy day before Christmas brings her an answer. Written for the Prompts in Panem Holiday Everlark Challenge


_"__Happiness is a gift and the trick is not to expect it, but to delight in it when it comes." - Charles Dickens, Nicholas Nickleby_

The snow had started while I was in out hunting. As the sky began to go dark, I walked through the woods – past bare trees and brambles, feet slipping silently over the forgotten leaves of summer. I paused, rubbing my hands together, wishing for my gloves – forgotten back on the table in the house; surely still lying there, balled together next to Peeta's. Tilting my head up, I let the fast falling flakes glide over my cheeks and eyelashes and turned towards home.

Ice covered the steps to the house and I knew with the way the snow was sticking we would have a pileup of icy whiteness by morning. There was not a sound in the street as I looked up at the house, taking in the gray stone and dark windows. I breathed deeply, the cold night air tightening my lungs. Who knew what was going on inside – I certainly didn't I'd been gone all afternoon. When I opened the door, would the Peeta I found be quiet and sullen or eager and excited? Who knew how many times he had been stopped in his tracks that day by the sting of tainted memories. I couldn't watch it happen and when I saw it, I wanted to run away or to hold him and apologize for ruining his life. I always chose running.

I stomped my boots off on the stairs, leaving two deep footprints in the snow and pushed the door open.

Yellow and gold fireplace light danced over the entrance way and the smell of wood smoke and baked goods mixed together hit my nose. My fingers loosened from their frozen clenching, warming in the heat of the room. Peeta sat on the couch, staring into the fireplace. From this far back, I couldn't see the expression in his eyes – they only seem dark and distant. The same yellow and gold light illuminated the room, touching Peeta's already golden hair with a burnished glow. I wanted to run my hands through it, touch the curls, feel them soft between my fingers; something I only felt courageous enough to do while his head rests on the pillow next to me and he has retreated into the safe comfort of sleep. In these quiet moments of the night, I wanted to close the gap between us, to cry and apologize and rest my head on his chest, but I couldn't. And so it seems miles of cool cotton sheets stretch between us each night.

The minute I step into the living room, Peeta's expression changes and a smile, warmer than the heat of the fireplace, greets me. It's been a good day, I think to myself.

"Katniss" he said, the smile never leaving his face and his eyes never leaving mine. My boots and jacket left behind, I find my place on the opposite end of the couch. "It's snowing?" he questions, eyes moving over the still melting flakes on my head. Reaching over he flicks the end of my braid, shaking a loose bit of snow away. His hand feels warm and I crave warmth after my day in the cold. In the way my nerves seem to be shivering as his hand brushes my chin, I know I don't just want a way to avoid possible frostbite.

"It's coming down fast" I say, and the words feel ridiculous leaving my mouth. Can't we think of anything better to talk about than the weather? Peeta's hand falls to the space on the couch that is between us, laying there almost like a question. I want to reach out my hand and put it in his. Instead I say "It finally feels like Christmas. I didn't expect it to this year."

When he turns his head to me, I can see in the shadows between us that he absolutely knows what I mean. This year so far seems only to be marked by too many deaths, too much loneliness and the echos of our suffering. The pain stays on his face a moment, a beat before he takes a breath and grins.

"I got you the best gift." The firelight on his face paints him golden and I feel myself smiling back at him. "You're going to be so surprised. You have no idea." I can hear him chuckling softly.

I watch him in this moment, the smile and the joy. For the first time in a long time, I don't see him as someone I've ruined, someone completely damaged. And perhaps today is a new day, washed clean by the snow. I look at his hand, still between us on the couch. Dr. Aurelius tells us to make our own happiness, this is what I think of as I let my hand cover Peeta's, filling that space between us.

"Your hands are freezing!" he exclaims and draws back his bigger, warmer hand in surprise. I know half of that surprise is in my unexpected touch. "You forgot your gloves again didn't you?" I nod and am grateful when he gathers both of my hands in his, bringing them to his mouth. Touching my fingers to his lips, he blows across them, warm breath surging around them. His eyes, now a warm tranquil blue in the firelight, never leave mine as he touches my hands to his lips, enveloping them in his warm breath again.

It is okay to want, I tell myself, coaching myself through my guilt in this moment. I don't think about this year of suffering, letting it all be wiped clean by the newly fallen snow and Peeta's warm breath.

"I think I need to add another pair of gloves to your Christmas list."

"I didn't get you anything" I say, looking down. "At least not yet." I have plans in the works, with paints and canvas being shipped from Johanna.

"It's okay," he says, my hand still in his, "This is enough." When I look at his face, it is half shadow and half-firelight. I don't know if the enough is my hand in his or this life we have cobbled together.

As Peeta returns my hands to me, warmed and tingling, I lean forward and into him. Not to meet his lips, not yet. I don't trust my lips or my heart that much in this moment. Instead I let my head find the crook of his neck and his sturdy, strong shoulder. My head bumps against his chin, my check nearly over his heart. I'm surprised to find it's not beating as quickly as mine, but Peeta has always been my rock. I let my body rest against his, let the weight of my heart flow out, his arm tentatively lands on my back, and then fully rests there when I don't move away. I feel his lips touch the top of my head and both of us grow still, holding each other together.

He is the one who breaks the silence first. "Let's get you warmed up" he says, shifting out from under me on the couch.

I hear him opening cupboards and the fridge, putting things on the stove. When I walk in, he looks up from what he's doing and smiles so widely and warmly I feel my toes start to tingle. I can't help by smile back at him; I want him to always be this happy.

I take my regular perch on the counter across from the stove, able to watch over the whole kitchen and the door. This has always been my job – to be the lookout, although the only dangerous thing on our doorstep has been a particularly volatile batch of liquor Haymitch brought over. I survey what's cooking and my eyes go wide when I spy the pot of dark, simmering, creamy liquid

You made hot chocolate!" I almost instantly remember the first time I tasted it, what seems like a hundred years ago now. I almost feel ridiculous for being so excited, but it's a treat and Peeta has perfected the art of making it as delectable as the Capitol's.

Peeta smiles again and crosses to the refrigerator next to me. "You're going to have to wait for the whipped cream though." He emerges from the fridge with a bowl of cream and grabs a whisk off the counter. Setting the bowl on the counter next to me, he dips the whisk into the cream, circling it quickly, eyes focused on the task at hand. Watching him work at the task, his arm muscles flex and tense over and over again. The curls on his forehead bob back and forth with each whip of his arm and his tongue pokes out between his lips ever so slightly. I can't help but think about his lips against the top of my head and the comfort in that closeness.

"Done!" he says and retreats to the sink to wash the whisk, leaving the bowl next to me. It's too tempting to resist and I dip two fingers into the bowl of whipped cream, bring them to my mouth and lick them clean. Peeta stops in the middle of the kitchen, midway between the sink and the counter, watching. My nerves begin to beat against my ribs as I see him standing stock still. I wonder where his mind has gone.

"Do that again." His voice is a low, husky croak and breaks the silence. I look at his face, studying it – his eyes are such a clear blue, I chose to trust and to listen. My fingers dip into the bowl of whipped cream again and I lick them clean, my eyes never leaving his. I realize what I'm telling him, what I'm doing – what I want to say.

I breathe, take another scoop of whipped cream and hold my fingers out to him. He finally smiles and my nerves crack and fall away like icicles. He licks the tips of my fingers, before slowly licking down each one, sucking them clean.

"We should save some for the hot chocolate" I whisper, unable to contain my smile. Peeta leans against the counter, arms on each side of me, fencing me in. There's a part of me that wants to run, maybe a part of me always will. But I know if I choose to run I can choose to stay too.

I feel the warmth of his body radiating through his clothes, touching every part of my body with its heat. From my seat on the counter, I'm just slightly taller than him. Half-holding my breath, I reach down and touch the curls laying against his forehead. He sighs. My hand travels back, behind his ear, down his neck, resting on his chest. His heart is beating fast now, thumps in double time – much like mine.

When he looks up at me, his eyes are focused on mine, softly questioning. I could make him ask, I could force him to be the one to take those first steps again. But what I want, I realize as I look into those eyes, is his happiness, just as much if not more than my own.

My hand finds the back of his neck and I bend forward to kiss him. The nerves leave my body, replaced by a new kind of tingling. Peeta's hands leave my sides, tangle themselves in my hair. Our lips meet again and I am consumed by every sense of him. I can smell the lingering cinnamon on his skin, feel his body strong and solidly pushing into me and the softness of his hair between my fingers. I want this happiness I realize; what only we can create for ourselves, the ways in which only we can fix each other.

"I want, I want," I start to mumble between the meeting of our lips, over and over again. Peeta pulls back, jaw set, eyes meeting mine. He is so intent, so focused, I could not look away if I wanted to do so.

"You love me," he says, "Real or not real?"

"Real" is the only thing I whisper, before our lips meet again and I am whole, and warm and for this moment sure that we will, as we always have, get through this together. We will heal ourselves together, love together and be happy together.

Peeta's hands wrap around my waist, lifting me off the counter. My legs wrap around his waist and my face finds the sturdy comfort of his shoulder as his mouth leaves mine momentarily. His lips move up my neck, to my ear.

"I love you too." It is a whisper and and answer. It has been true for so long and yet it only feels like I have now finally opened enough to know it.

When he sets me down on the couch and our mouth meet again, I am reminded of our conversation about Christmas and something I read once: happiness is a gift. I lace my fingers through Peeta's fingers, his mouth moving against mine, as the firelight paints us both gold, and I know this gift is enough for both of us.


End file.
